Chapter One

The Way Things Begin

from Kaash — You Could Love Me Someday by Aashray

8th January 2026

Anvay Dubey stood shirtless in his rented apartment, the hum of Jaipur slipping through the open windows. At twenty-eight, his body still carried traces of what it used to be. The chest was broad, the shoulders familiar, but the sharpness had dulled. He gets tired faster now. Stretching in the mornings took longer than it should have, like his body needed convincing.

He walked to the balcony the way he always did, without thinking. The chair waited in its usual spot, legs scraping faintly as he dragged it back. He propped his heels on the railing where the paint had chipped away long ago and lit a cigarette. He took one drag and let the rest burn slowly between his fingers. Inside the room, his phone lay face down on the table. No sound. No light. It stayed there.

Smoke curled upward, softening the crescent moon until its edges blurred. The night felt thicker than usual.

Ash slipped from the cigarette and scattered across the balcony floor, landing beside older grey marks that never quite washed away. He didn't look down. Nights stacked here quietly, each one folding into the next. The same view, the same height, the same silence pressing in from all sides.

His eyes dropped to his chest. The ink there rose and fell with his breathing. He brushed his fingers over it once, then pulled his hand away, like touching it too long might pull something loose.

His gaze shifted to his palm.

The tattoo there was smaller than the others. Easy to miss. He stared at it longer than he normally did, longer than what felt reasonable, until the heat from the cigarette crept close to his skin.

He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned. When he finally exhaled, it came out slow and heavy, as if it carried something out with it.

Not everyone who smokes is chasing a high.

Some are just trying to quiet the noise of a moment that never stopped screaming inside them.

He coughed once.

The sound cut through the stillness.

The smoke thickened. The balcony lights smeared.

The smell changed.

Dust hung in the air.

A basketball slammed against concrete.

He was sixteen again.

The court of his Jaipur school stretched out under harsh floodlights, cracked and uneven. His shoes scraped as he ran, gravel skidding beneath his soles. One lace had come loose, slapping against his ankle, but he ignored it. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, his breath coming faster than his thoughts.

Girls gathered near the boundary, pretending to watch the game. Whispering. Laughing at the wrong moments. Someone nudged someone else and looked away when he glanced over.

Anvay's attention kept slipping sideways.

Glasses caught the floodlight for half a second. Her hair was tied back badly, a few strands escaping near her ear. One shoe tapped against the ground, impatient, slightly off-beat, like she was waiting for something she didn't know how to name.

The ball left his hand wrong.

His foot slid in the dust. Balance vanished.

Baljeet cut past him and scored clean. Darsh doubled over on the sidelines, shouting something useless between laughs. Aarav clapped once, sharp and approving.

Someone yelled Anvay's name. Someone kicked the ball back toward him without looking.

He laughed too, a fraction late.

The days that followed blurred together. Exams were done, teachers barely pretending to care. Classes dissolved into free periods. For the four of them, that meant basketball, again and again.

Anvay jogged down the stairs from the fourth floor toward the sports room near reception, the ball thudding softly under his arm. As he pushed the door open, he slowed.

She stood by the counter.

Not in uniform. Hair tied back. Glasses resting low on her nose. Her father spoke to someone with a file in his hand. She waited beside him, hands clasped, eyes moving carefully across walls that still felt unfamiliar.

Admission day.

The ball shifted slightly in his grip.

A sharp slap landed on his back.

“Chutiye!..Ball la na!,” Baljeet said, laughing.

Anvay nodded once, grabbed another from the rack, and walked out. The court was already loud. Sneakers squealed. Darsh was shouting nonsense. Aarav waved him over.

He played harder than usual that day. Drove the ball too aggressively. Missed a clean pass he would normally make. No one noticed.

Back on the balcony, the cigarette burned down to the filter. Anvay crushed it into the ashtray, his thumb lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

Above him, the crescent moon hung steady.

The night stayed open.

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